


The Second Verse [An Omen of Crepes]

by vol_ctrl



Series: The History of Omens [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath, Angel/Demon Relationship, Angel/Demon Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Break Up, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-19 01:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19346404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have developed a new routine in addition to their usual lunches. (Starting this next part the right way with smut.)





	1. 19 May 1649 - Nine Months After Aziraphale Learned to Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the continuation of 'An Introduction to Dancing.' Reading the previous part is not required for continuity, but if you like this, you'll like that.

“There's no rest for the wicked" originates from - what else? - the Bible. The original text from the book of Isaiah reads "Eueso ye wicked haue no peace, saieth my God," and promises the eternal suffering of sinners in the afterlife. As the phrase came into popular lexicon, it came to mean that one's work is never done. By the colloquial definition, one might say this was equally true of the blessed.

Either way, Crowley had his hands full.

 

"Oh-hhh, Crowley..." Aziraphale whimpered, pushing more fully back against the demon. One hand gripped at Crowley's forearm snaked around his waist, while the other stretched back to tangle in the reddish curls that tantalized his bare neck and shoulders. Crowley's hand pumped steadily along the angel's thick cock, aided by some oil from the pantry.

The angel didn't have much in the way of food in the house, as he'd never been particularly good at cooking. But he had some staples, and Crowley had shown him some much more useful applications for the olive oil that had sat untouched for so long.

"You really ought to do this yourself, you know," Crowley husked against Aziraphale's arched neck, dragging his lips over the heated flesh.

"You know I can't do that, Crowley," Aziraphale chirped back. A grin spread across his lips, fully sinking into the pleasure and abandon of it.

"You and your so-called morals..." Crowley's other hand squeezed Aziraphale's thigh and dipped between his spread legs, finding all sorts of places that sent shudders up Aziraphale's frame. Crowley's eyes fell shut as the angel's rump gyrated against his cock, a low moan muffled into his shoulder.

Besides having lunch together, this had become one of the more common ways Crowley and Aziraphale expressed their friendship. For the better part of a year now, they met every fortnight or so, ostensibly so Crowley could help Aziraphale with his little 'problem.'

"And besides, you're s-so-oh good at it," Aziraphale’s breath caught and he pulled at Crowley's hair. "Yes, there! Touch me there," he begged. Even though they'd fooled around numerous times, each time he discovered something new about pleasure. Crowley seemed to instinctively know just how to touch him.

The demon's hand had a mind of its own and had gone past Aziraphale sack and near to his entrance. That was one thing Crowley still steered clear of--Aziraphale's enthusiasm was infectious, but Crowley kept the forbidden knowledge about the true nature of intercourse between two with bodies such as theirs hidden from the angel. Also, the act could very possibly burn his dick off.

Now Aziraphale was begging for more. Satan give him strength... Aziraphale made it so hard to be 'good,' despite being an angel and all. Angels weren't supposed to be like this.

How could he resist giving his best friend more of what made him sing like that? Entranced by the vision arched against himself, intoxicated by the way his body rocked rhythmically into his hand and against his cock, Crowley quickened his strokes and teased the delicate flesh near his entrance.

Aziraphale panted as his toes curled and his thighs spread wider. In the beginning, it had been too much, and he would curl inward, shut his legs and shy from the sensation. Now he welcomed the way Crowley overwhelmed him and showed him new heights. The demon knew how to finish him quickly, focusing on the dripping head of his cock.

With a cry, Aziraphale's hips canted up from Crowley's lap and his thighs strained and trembled as he came. It took him a moment to come back to earth, and when he did, Crowley was holding him.

That stupid blissed-out smile of Aziraphale's that followed his orgasms made Crowley want to shove him off the bed. It was too much, seeing all of... that on Aziraphale's face, beamed directly at him. Aziraphale made it disappear by kissing him.

The angel deepened the kiss as he turned his body, coming to face him. His lips drifted to Crowley's jaw, to his serpentine mark just before his ear, then to his neck.

"I'll make it up to you. For doing me this _fine_ service," Aziraphale said against Crowley's throat. He felt Crowley shiver under his touch, though he knew it was more from his tone of voice than his hands. Crowley always gave a little start when he used his everyday voice in such non-everyday moments.

Aziraphale blessed him with kisses all the way down his chest and eased down off the edge of the bed. It wasn't the first time the angel had knelt before his altar, but the sight still sent a bolt of raw desire through him. He always started sweetly, just using his lips until Crowley was breathing heavy and had that dark look in his eyes. Then his tongue took a turn, while Crowley's fingers ran through his hair. By the time Aziraphale's lips parted over the weeping head, Crowley was almost there. His muscles tensed as he held back, luxuriating in the sensation of the angel swallowing down his cock.

Aziraphale liked to do this for Crowley because it made the demon really moan. Crowley pulled at his hair and dragged nails over his shoulder as his hips rocked toward Aziraphale's mouth. Aziraphale suspected Crowley restrained himself around him, but this act got him riled up. It was exciting to see this part of Crowley, not unlike his occasional frustrated outburst at the state of things between Heaven and Hell, good and evil, angels and demons and mortals; a hint of danger, a reminder of his affiliation with... well, not evil. But not-necessarily-good.

Aziraphale didn't rush. He let Crowley's rising moans wash over him. His hands were pressed down at the base, fingers splayed on his groin with only his index finger and thumb holding Crowley's cock in place. Slate blue eyes flicked up to find Crowley's slit-pupiled eyes dark and his lips parted. One hand slid down from Crowley's groin, fondled his sack and went experimentally further. He wondered if Crowley liked being touched there as much as he had.

Crowley gasped and his thighs tensed as he held Aziraphale down on his cock. "Fuck!" he hissed. Aziraphale's eyes watered as Crowley's cock went down his throat. Suddenly, Crowley pulled him off and began furiously jacking himself off. In an instant, he came with a strangled cry.

Crowley fell back onto the quilt coverlet of Aziraphale's bed with a satisfied hoot.

Aziraphale crawled back onto the edge of the bed. "Why do you always do that?" he asked, leaning over Crowley's knees to retrieve a handkerchief from the bed stand. He wiped neatly at his lips. "Do it yourself, at the end?" It was odd, and left Aziraphale a little disappointed.

Crowley was fully stretched out, his feet dangling off the edge of the bed. "Mmm..." His own take on the blissed-out grin tilted his lips. "Guess I'm just better at it." He lifted his head slightly to shoot the angel a mocking grin.

Aziraphale looked self conscious. "I am still learning..." He clutched the handkerchief at his knee and frowned at the bed stand.

Crowley's grin fell and he sat up. "I was only joking, angel," he said as he placed a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. He crept over and kissed the back of his neck. It was easier to joke and tease Aziraphale than admit his own stupid superstition that his best friend would be suddenly damned after all this because he was the one to give the final blow of sinful pleasure. "You're very good at it." Crowley peered up at Aziraphale, his serpentine eyes somehow sweet.

"You're just saying that." Aziraphale sighed and put on a tight smile. "But thank you. That's very kind of you to say." He still felt like he wasn't giving as good as he was receiving. Crowley left him nigh catatonic some nights, just a trembling, tingling shell of his usually composed self.

"I mean it!" Crowley insisted, getting up on his knees on the bed and grabbing Aziraphale by the shoulders from behind. "If I told Gabriel, 'Look here, Gabriel, that Principality Aziraphale--he sucks a mean cock,' well I don't know what he'd say, but he'd know I was telling the truth. He can see through lies, you know."

Aziraphale looked horrified. "Crowley!" It was so ridiculous he had to laugh, especially seeing that shit-eating grin on his face.

"Now, it doesn't have to come to that," Crowley assured him in a grand voice. "If you'll just accept the damn compliment." He kissed Aziraphale's mussed hair.

"Alright. I guess I have no choice if you're going to blackmail me into it." Aziraphale turned and took Crowley's face in his hands, kissing him sweetly on the lips. They lingered in the kiss, and Aziraphale sighed as it was broken. "On that note..."

"Yeah, I should get going." Crowley sat back and reached for his trousers, unenthused.

They had agreed at the beginning that it was best practice that they not spend the night in each other's beds. One never knew when one's superior might come knocking unannounced.

"I'm hosting a reading I thought you might be interested in." Aziraphale carefully untangled his shirt, vest, and waistcoat.

"That scientist type, right? The so-called heretic?"

"The very same."

Crowley grinned. "Wrote it in my planner. 'Sow the seeds of heresy - Thursday.'"

"Of course, I will be politely steering listeners toward the Good Book instead." Aziraphale smiled. It would be less than a fortnight.

“You’ll make more atheists that way.” Crowley finished dressing, though his buttons were crooked. Aziraphale fussed about him looking so unkempt and insisted on fixing them for him before he would let him leave. A flimsy excuse for a moment longer with Crowley.

"Goodnight, angel."

"Goodnight, Crowley."


	2. 28 August 1648 - 3 Days After Aziraphale Learned to Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine months previous, Aziraphale learned to dance. Afterward, he asked Crowley out to lunch to discuss the sorts of things angels do and don't do. (The direct sequel chapter to 'An Introduction to Dancing.')

**28 August 1648 - 3 Days Since Aziraphale Learned to Dance**

 

“Seems to me like a very sad pancake.” Crowley did his best impression of himself, utterly collected with a hint of disinterest.

“It’s a crepe,” Aziraphale told him enthusiastically. He didn’t seem like he was wracked by the guilt of a sinner. Still beaming with his usual holiness. Not a tarnish on his impeccable goodness.

“A  _ crepe _ ?” Crowley parroted back with a sneer. “What’s that? French?”

“Quite right.” Aziraphale spread a napkin over his knee and took up his knife and fork with barely suppressed glee.

Crowley leaned his cheek against his fist, elbow at an ungentlemanly angle on the white tablecloth. He watched Aziraphale take his first bite. Watching the angel eat was by far more entertaining than eating anything himself. He did have a taste for coffee. And alcohol. But food? Never touched the stuff.

Aziraphale’s expression fell as he chewed. He lowered his utensils and frowned at his plate. “This is a very sad pancake.” He poked at the crepe with his fork. “There was a visiting chef here last week. Introduced this marvelous thing.” He was crestfallen.

Crowley frowned sympathetically. “Guess you’ll have to pop over to France.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a watch, checking the time. “Not the best time, though, is it?”

“I’ve been hearing all sorts of things out of France. Riots, beheadings, starvation… Dreadful.” Aziraphale wiped at his lips and peered over at Crowley. “Yours?”

Crowley’s brow creased over his tinted glasses. “Just as well as yours.” At least the conversation was familiar. Maybe he’d gotten all nervey for nothing. Just like he thought, they’d go on for centuries without mentioning That Night.

Aziraphale sighed and gently slid his plate away with a look of disappointment. Just tea, then. “Why does it have to all be so… messy?”

“Ohh, I don’t know angel.  _ Some _ one decided that knowing things was the root of all evil, and yet put up a big sign saying, ‘DO NOT TOUCH,’ and designed these little creatures who can’t resist doing what they’re told  _ not  _ to do.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,  _ Crawley,  _ but I think  _ some _ one might’ve had a… well, not a hand but a… well,  _ something  _ to do with it.”

Crowley winced. “Don’t call me that, angel, really.”

“Sorry.” Aziraphale smiled apologetically and folded his hands near his cup and saucer.

“Why shouldn’t they have knowledge? World would be a better place is there was more knowing going around. It’s secrets, and- and these big beliefs that deny all other beliefs that get humans all wound up and killing each other. I’ve hardly had to lift a finger in a thousand years to get a clap on the back, ‘Nice job with that one, Crowley. Good work.’”

“It’s the wrong knowledge that gets humans into trouble.”

“And who decides what’s the right knowledge and the wrong knowledge?”

Aziraphale tilted his head with a pointed look at Crowley’s covered eyes.

“Is it like the right kind of dancing and the wrong kind of dancing?” Crowley dared, heated.

Aziraphale blushed. He folded and unfolded his hands.

Crowley sat back in his chair and drummed his longer fingers on the tablecloth. Well, shit. Now he’d gone and brought it up. Good job not talking about it, Crowley.

“You kept that knowledge from me.”

“God kept that knowledge from you.”

“No, I mean - your… feelings toward me.”

Crowley’s fingers stilled and he adjusted his face to careful neutral.

Aziraphale sat up straighter. “Now, Crowley, I--”

“Angel, I know,” Crowley barreled forward swiftly. “I’m no idiot. It was a one time thing. Obviously angels don’t- can’t--” The very undemonic feeling of guilt stirred in his gut.

“Listen to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted.

Crowley’s eyebrows raised over his glasses. Aziraphale never cut him off.

“It’s not for you to say what angels can or can’t do. Or… should or shouldn’t.” Aziraphale’s eyes drifted away toward the sad excuse for a crepe. “Angels don’t  _ need  _ to eat. But, well, I rather enjoy it. Angels probably shouldn’t be drinking anything other than the sacrament, but,  _ well… _ You know my collection. Angels don’t need to run bookshops, or go shopping, or read books curled up by the hearth. Angels don’t need these ‘creature comforts.’” Aziraphale’s gaze met Crowley’s and his lips settled into that familiar, warm smile. “Angels shouldn’t dance, and they definitely should not be friends with demons.”

Crowley grimaced, half a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Suppose we’ve gone a bit native,” Aziraphale chuckled. “If we did everything we were supposed to, we’d be miserable!”

Crowley almost replied with an “amen.”

“The other night…” Aziraphale eyed the spoon by his saucer, delicate fingers moving it over the tablecloth. Crowley couldn’t help but notice the sensuousness of his lips parted in thought, and it sent a pang of want mixed with guilt deep into his gut. “Well, I liked it better than this sad pancake.” The angel’s smile was reminiscent of that night. “I’m holding you accountable for this new… affliction you’ve bestowed upon me.” The twinkle in Aziraphale’s eyes was less than innocent. “After all, I can’t very well do it myself.”

Crowley opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it again. That was... not what he expected. He'd trudged through a quagmire of fear that Aziraphale would shun him and his “evil” influence; completely, out of his life entirely. Then there was the less frightful option that they made a pact to never speak of it again. Even that filled Crowley with an alien feeling: awkwardness. The last thing he anticipated was for the angel to pin him with the responsibility of relieving him of his sinful feelings.

Aziraphale's smile faltered at Crowley's prolonged silence. Did... did Crowley not want that, after all? Had he  _ intended  _ for it to be a one time thing? “Crowley?” He cleared his throat.

“I... I just... thought you'd say no.” The corner of his mouth twitched, and he let out a little laugh of disbelief. “Are you sure about this?” he asked as he leaned toward Aziraphale across the table.

Aziraphale's smile brightened once more. “One cannot unlearn knowledge, just as one cannot unbite an apple.”

“I suppose you could regurgitate an apple.”

“Crowley.”

“Well, you could.”

“Would you like to come over for a cup of tea?” Aziraphale steered clear of the poorly mixed metaphors.

Crowley's lips curled and he sat back, at ease. “Another? You've got a cuppa right there.”

Aziraphale blushed and pinched his lips together.

Crowley laughed and knocked his glasses down his nose. “I'll make you a special cuppa, angel.”

And so, for the second time in Creation, and less than a week apart, an angel and a demon tore off each other's clothes and made a mockery of their intended enmities.

  
  



	3. 20 May 1649 - Nine Months and One Day After Aziraphale Learned to Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley feels guilty for leading Aziraphale down this treacherous path. Hastur drops by to check on Crowley's work. Crowley really doesn't need this shit today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has come to my attention that I'm a fucking idiot and all of my dates are (TV) canonically wrong. Aziraphale learned the gavotte in the 1880s, not the 1600s. However, the direction of the story as I have it planned requires me to stay the course and swallow my shame. 
> 
> The only thing that makes me feel better is something Neil Gaiman himself said, and reiterates often:  
> "I think that anything that happens on screen is canon, and anything that happens offscreen is valid headcanon. And I also think interpreting what you see on the screen and deciding what it means is part of the joy of watching TV, and I am pretty certain that I wasn’t put on this Earth to tell anyone at all their headcanon is wrong, nor should they give two hoots if I did. I might be wrong, after all."
> 
> He's a treasure. Enjoy the angst ahead.

The first thing Crowley experienced when he woke up was a feeling of contentment. His sheets were luxurious, the mattress just the right mix of firm and soft that he liked, and last night he’d had his dick sucked by a literal angel. This feeling was followed by his usual, top of the morning arousal from sweet dreams of said angel. As he rolled lazily in the sheets, his cock slid along the silk, lips parting with a whisper of a moan. He hummed and opened his eyes as the next tumble of damned feelings ruined everything. Worry. Fear. Guilt.

Every stolen moment with Aziraphale left him… happy. Truly happy. Even more so now that he could kiss him instead of just thinking about kissing him, could feel his naked skin under his tidy clothes, ravish him until he cried out his name. But once the glow of pleasure and Aziraphale’s warm embrace left him, he was cold with fear and doubt.

Aziraphale’s immortal soul should not be his responsibility, goddammit.

But he’d started it, hadn’t he?

Didn’t realize he was going to exert more self control than a saint to save Aziraphale from himself. They were flying under the radar for now, but Crowley was certain that if he got carried away, if he actually took the plunge, as it were, that his best friend would be forsaken.

And he’d almost done it. Crowley covered his face with a groan. Sure, even fingering Aziraphale might still be an act that wouldn’t put a target on their backs, but there was only one direction that would lead. How long before Aziraphale started getting curious about other avenues of pleasure two well-hung male bodies to be explored? And just how long could Crowley really control himself?

He knew what would happen. Aziraphale, riled up and horny, would beg him for more.

_ “Crowley! It’s so… ah…”  _ Crowley could hear Aziraphale panting, practically feel him straddling his lap. His cock throbbed and Crowley groaned through gritted teeth. Aziraphale’s nails would bite into his shoulder as he canted his hips back, into the new sensation of fingers inside him.  _ “Wh-what are you doing to me, Crowley…”  _ Aziraphale’s voice always got so husky when he was that far gone.

Crowley’s hand had found his cock. Pesky hand really had a mind of it’s own. “It’s your fault I feel so shitty,” he muttered. “If you could just behave yourself…” Crowley sighed deeply and gave in.

He pictured Aziraphale tucked against his neck, his hot breath sending chills down his chest. He’d cry out as Crowley stretched and fingered him, his eyebrows bowed over his blissed-out slate blue eyes. Once he fell into the new feeling, he’d tangle his fingers in Crowley’s hair and press his forehead against the demon’s, and whisper, _“More…”_  
And he’d lose it. Just like he was here, alone in bed, thinking about it. All the pleasure was sucked out of Crowley’s orgasm because he knew that scenario doomed them both.

Crowley threw back the sheets and got out of bed to clean up. He glared at himself in the mirror of the bathroom. 

“Look at you,” he said to himself. “Some friend you are. Oh, yeah, kiss an angel. It’ll be funny.” Crowley balled his hands into fists and leaned his knuckles on the fine marble countertop. “You really are a demon. An evil, self-indulgent piece of shit. How long before you fuck it all up!” he shouted at his reflection.

Full of disgust, Crowley swept back into his bedroom and dressed. He only bothered getting half dressed, not dealing with the buttons on his multiple layers. He didn’t really have anywhere to go today.

He was going mad. What was he going to do?

Shit. Fuck. Shit! Fuck!

Crowley's internal mantra of cursing left him deaf to the arrival of Hastur in his foyer. The Duke of Hell strode around the corner to find Crowley pacing by his desk. “Hullo, Crowley...” His voice carriage wheels on gravel. “Getting a bit of... exercise?”

Crowley jumped. “Shitfuck!” He composed himself in an instant, straightened his unbuttoned coat, and put on his best smile on gritted teeth. “Hastur. What an... unpleasant surprise.” Of course Hastur would drop in today. Just what he needed.

“Naturally.” Hastur wrinkled his nose. “What works do you have to report?” He had no interest in small talk, even if it had been invented by the forces of Hell.

“Ahh...”  _ Tempting an angel, for one,  _ shot through him like a bolt and rattled around inside him. His eyes roamed around the room and fell on the newspaper on his desk. He sauntered over, scanning the contents as casually as he could. “Have you heard about the... Commonwealth?”

Hastur narrowed his eyes stupidly at Crowley.

“Yeah, yeah – England's a Commonwealth now, Free State and all. No more monarchy. Well, I think they'll keep the monarchy, but more as... window dressing.”

“And how, exactly, is that in Satan's interest?”

“Well... lot of chaos, innit? Kicked up a big ruckus, lots of... of in-fighting and... You know, violence and things.”

Hastur heaved a huge sigh, shoulders sinking. Crowley's work left much to be desired, but he was forever favored for some reason. His gaze flicked to the paper Crowley had his fingers rested on and he walked over, snatching the thing from the desk. Crowley took a step back to avoid the hellish stink radiating from Hastur.

The duke's eyes scanned the page and he scowled at Crowley. “You're just making that up. Did you really have anything to do with this?” he growled.

“Hastur... it's not like you to not trust me!” Crowley sneered.

The demon sniffed, his nose wrinkled further. “What... is that smell?” He looked disgusted. “Smells... holy...”

Crowley had a quip prepared to tell Hastur it was probably his own stink, but Hastur's words made him freeze. Just for a moment. “Oh, that? It's my new cologne. Helps me blend in with all the religion on these days.”

Hastur glared at Crowley. “I don't trust you. There've been rumors...”

“You lot not got anything better to do than circulate rumors about those of us who're stuck up here on duty?” Crowley’s patience was wearing thin.

“Rumors that you've been fraternizing with the  _ other side, _ ” he said the last words with so much venom, spittle flew from his lips. Before Crowley could snap at him, Hastur took a step toward him, hands balled into fists. “You had better be using your time wisely. If I find out you've been fraternizing with angels, I'll rip your wings off myself.” Crowley was deathly quiet. Hastur's lips split into a horrible grin. “And the angel? I'll rip his wings off, too. And then I'll drag him to be flayed in the Pits, and let him swelter and burn in the Fires, and--”

“I get it, Hastur!” Crowley boomed and shoved the duke away from him. “You think I'm really that stupid?”

Hastur squinted in such a way as to say 'yes.'

“Is that all?” Crowley huffed. “Can you,” he waved his hand dismissively, “buzz off?”

Hastur sneered. “I’ll be watching you, Crowley…”

Crowley turned from Hastur as the duke vanished in a swarm of maggots and foul smelling smoke, and turned back to make a rude gesture at his absence.

Shit. Fuck.

The vicious anger and self-loathing that had been festering all day reached a boiling point. Crowley lashed out, unforgiving and directionless fury diminishing his room full of plants by half, leaving the rest trembling in terror. He screamed and kicked a chair across the room, tore books from the shelves, and by the end was surrounded by a tantrum of fire. Panting, half-sobbing, he fell to his knees and tore at his hair.

That was it. His nightmare realized. Even if Hastur watched him as poorly as he had for thousands of years, the threat was too real. He couldn’t lose his best friend. It wasn’t worth the risk of their comfortable existence, no matter how long he had pined for Aziraphale, no matter how sweet his intimacy with the angel was, no matter how strong his desire. He had to end it.


	4. A Visit from On High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel pops in for a visit. Aziraphale has to be quick on his feet to avoid suspicion.

The bookshop nestled in Soho was blessed by a warm wash of golden light as afternoon turned to evening. The light streamed through the windows and illuminated the ubiquitous army of dust motes barely kept at bay by the proprietor. It was Aziraphale’s favorite time of day, when he would carefully return books to their homes and finally alleviate the mild anxiety he carried from anyone actually touching his books.

Aziraphale hummed a little hymn to himself as he walked the stacks with books lovingly tucked in his arm. He could have put the books back in their proper place with a wave of his hand, but he liked to take his time around the tomes. Each one was like a child to him, and deserved to be held and coddled before being returned to its rightful place. 

The bell on the door chimed and Aziraphale leaned toward the end of the stack to call out, “Hello! I’m just about to close up shop.” He tapped a book into place on its shelf and then strode toward the end. “But I’m happy to stay open for a moment…”

Gabriel stood with one hand clasped around the other wrist, dressed to the absolute frilliest of nines, with his traditional tight-lipped smiled. “Hello, Aziraphale.”

“Oh. Gabriel. Hello.” Aziraphale straightened up to present himself as tall as he could muster. He tried and failed to dismiss concern over the fact that Gabriel chose to make one of his infrequent visits the very day after Crowley had mentioned him by name.  He smoothed his expression of concern best he could, but to be honest, Gabriel always made him a bit nervous. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just the usual,” Gabriel said warmly. “Came to hear your report…” He strode further into the shop, peering at the various books on display with disinterest.

“Oh, well, I…” Aziraphale wheedled, lips pursed in a polite smile. This wasn’t usual! Gabriel had been Earth-side nigh often as he in the early days, but of late, he barely touched down once a century.

“You haven’t submitted one in quite some time, so I thought I’d better check in personally.” Those violet eyes fixed Aziraphale in place.

“Yes, well…” Aziraphale fidgeted. “I didn’t  _ mean  _ to be negligent in submitting my reports, only…” He cleared his throat. “There has been a rather lot going on.”

“Luckily, forgetfulness is not a sin.” Gabriel chuckled, but the sound rung cold.

Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat and didn’t dare take his eyes off Gabriel. “Yes. Well.” He made a valiant effort to continue casually tidying up, but his mind was racing. In his head, he skimmed back over the morning paper--any morning paper he could recall. “I-I’ve been using my networks to, ah, do some large works. Yes.” Aziraphale closed his eyes and thought about what Crowley had said last night-- _ He can see through lies, you know. _ Aziraphale somehow doubted that, otherwise he would be in much hotter water by now for his… exaggerations of the truth.

“Oh? Your work is always commendable, Aziraphale. Why wouldn’t you want to share your great works?”

“Well, I… You’ve all been so busy with the business in France, and I… I’ve been doing my small part over here. You’ve heard about the Commonwealth decision?”

“Yes?” Gabriel’s brow narrowed over his piercing eyes. “Did you have a hand in that?”

“Yes, yes--I put a bit of my influence behind that.”

“Hmm…” Gabriel frowned thoughtfully at a book, then flicked his gaze back to Aziraphale. “Bit chaotic, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but all change is.” Aziraphale flustered. “It’s- it’s for the  _ greater  _ good!”

“Mm. Yes.” Gabriel nodded slowly. His brow furrowed again and he glanced around the shop. “It feels a bit… icky in here. Are you stocking forbidden texts?” His eyebrows rose expectantly.

“E-excuse me?” Aziraphale’s shoulders jerked upward as he clutched the book in his hands with white knuckles.

“There’s something… evil in here.” He sniffed once and wrinkled his nose.

“O-oh, that!” Aziraphale’s laugh came out hollow. “I discorporated a demon. In here.”

“You did?” Gabriel straightened and looked delighted. “Marvelous! Who was it?”

“Ahh, some… lesser demon.” Aziraphale avoided those violet eyes. “Didn’t catch his name.”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel breathed proudly, “you are the model of modesty. Bravo.”

Aziraphale’s face pinched in a smile as his heart hammered in his chest.

“Well. Good work, Aziraphale. I’ll be on my way.” Gabriel knocked his knuckles on the book he had been glancing over. “Do be better about getting your reports in, hm?”

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale bowed. “Thanks for, uh… dropping by!”

Gabriel waved and left politely, but unnecessarily, through the door.

Immediately, Aziraphale rushed to the door and locked it behind him. He stood there, wide-eyed, with his hands frozen on the lock for a long minute, then shook himself free to swing the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ with a snap. Finally, he could breathe.

He really needed to find a better way to air the place out of Crowley’s presence. Perhaps they shouldn’t meet so often… Aziraphale turned and sank back against the door. His eyes naturally went upward, but he swiftly redirected them to stare at his cosy shop. He wouldn’t be finding any answers coming from Up There. 

Crowley might be upset if he suggested they take their time together less frequently. Aziraphale could just imagine his scowl, sullenly grumbling under his breath. 

More than that,  _ he  _ would be upset if they had to extend the time between visits. Already, they had to make sure not to even spend the nights together when they  _ did  _ visit. 

Aziraphale knew they were playing with fire, so to speak. If the Almighty found him guilty of sin, he would have been struck down by now. It wasn’t as if She turned a blind eye on anything. But the other angels… They wouldn’t understand. There would be paperwork, reprimands, punishments… They had secondary powers to cast him out of Heaven. He didn’t think he would make a very good demon. Although, he may not have been the best angel, either.

Why did it have to be so complicated? Why was he bound to virtues without any power of his own? And if he was “blessed” to have no say over his alignment, why did he find himself so full of desire for someone on the other side? Was this a test? A cruel joke?

“Breathe, Aziraphale,” the angel told himself and closed his eyes. Some things might have to change, but… At least he had Crowley to suffer through it all with. The thought brought a smile to his face.

 


	5. 'Thursday: Sow the seeds of heresy'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We need to talk."

Crowley stood stiffly inside the bookshop by the window. The reading had proved far more long winded than he, or any of the other gaggle of patrons, would have liked. But, being English, they were far too polite to leave before it was over.

A smattering of staggered applause greeted the author as he shut the book he had read from.

“Well! That was _very_ interesting. Thank you, Mr. Wallace, for your time. Yes, now, there are copies of this book available, but unfortunately I have but a limited supply. However, if anyone would be interested, I have several other books with opinions on the subject…” Aziraphale’s utterly British charm worked wonders on the ponderous patrons. This came in handy as he wasn't  _actually_ willing to part with any of his own books. The point was to poke holes in the heretical topic of the night. By showcasing the opposition, he could shine light on the Truth.

Crowley remained posted by the window, a statue of black with stern features. Finally, the crowd thinned and Aziraphale said goodnight to his guest author. There were a few stragglers, but Aziraphale made his way over to Crowley.

“Not a bad turn out, I thought,” he said brightly. His demeanor was markedly more familiar in the presence of his best friend.

Crowley frowned and nodded as he looked about the room.

“You, ah… took a rather hands off approach tonight.” Aziraphale felt something was off with Crowley, but couldn’t put his finger on it.

Crowley shrugged. “Work does itself.”

“Right.” Aziraphale chuckled and his gaze drifted to the last few people still milling about the shelves. “Stay for a spot of sherry?” he offered, his tone soft as his smile.

The hope in Aziraphale’s eyes made Crowley hurt all the more. “Yeah,” he agreed in a hollow voice. “I’ll stay.”

Crowley’s tone dripped with dread, and put Aziraphale on high alert. Brow furrowed in concern, he forced a smile and left to help encourage the last few patrons to make their purchases or leave.

“Would you rather tea, instead? Or coffee?” Aziraphale asked as he locked the door behind the last patron.

“Do you have something stronger?” Crowley asked. He was still wearing his outer coat, and took no action to remove it.

Aziraphale double checked the door with a frown. “I do have some of that scotch you brought over…”

Crowley nodded and the two retired to the back room. Aziraphale tucked himself into the corner shelf where he kept his spirits in frequent rotation. Only a few of the bottles here were dusty, and most were relatively full. Occasionally, he and Crowley would imbibe and actually process the stuff, but more often they recanted their drinks for the night. He poured himself a sherry and fixed a scotch for the demon, unable to shake this nervous feeling. “We can go upstairs--”

“We need to talk.”

Aziraphale turned and the concern in his gaze almost did Crowley in. He steeled himself, hands balled into fists. The angel crept toward Crowley and proffered his drink. “Yes, I--” Aziraphale began to agree. Did Crowley know about Gabriel dropping by? Or perhaps…

Crowley took the glass sharply from Aziraphale and shot it down in a gulp.

“We can’t do this anymore.”

“What?” Aziraphale was eviscerated by the unwavering tone of Crowley’s voice.

“It’s too dangerous.” Crowley’s voice came out quieter than he had practiced. And it hurt a hell of a lot more.

“Crowley…” Far be it from him to deny the danger of being found out, but he felt fairly certain that not even Gabriel really suspected anything. “Gabriel came by just the other day,” he admitted, as lightly as he could manage, though his voice quavered. “He… well, yes, he, um, caught your scent, a bit, but… But I told him I discorporated a lesser demon and he was so pleased! If we… if we just…”

“Don’t you get it?” Crowley snapped. “This isn’t just about hiding from our bosses! You could be damned! Forever!” He shook with anger, and with fear at the thought of Aziraphale being raked over the coals of Hell, tortured for centuries until he was hewn into a true demon.

“I… I thought you wanted this…” Aziraphale shrank. “I thought… _we_ …”

“Think about yourself for once, angel!” Crowley shouted.

“But… Crowley…” Aziraphale’s distraught expression tore at the demon.

“I was just doing my job!” Crowley lied. “I tempted you! That’s what I _do._ I tempt. I lure. I corrupt,” he spat. “But you’re better than that, Aziraphale. You’re _good._ ” Crowley rushed toward Aziraphale and gripped his shoulders. The angel winced at his sharp touch. Heaven, how that ached. “You’re so very good.” He forced himself to hold on, to look past all the hurt in Aziraphale’s shrinking frame. “I can’t control myself. One day, I will damn you forever to hellfire. By whatever powers that be, I won’t let that happen.”

Aziraphale couldn’t deny the fear that lurked in the back of his mind that Crowley was right. Nor could he deny the sadness that Crowley had kept this from him, left him in the dark because he didn’t think Aziraphale could withstand the temptation or make his own judgement about it. But to hear Crowley say that all of this was some demonic _job_ was a knife in his breast--and he denied that. Crowley wouldn’t…

“You need to stay away from me.” Crowley let go of Aziraphale with a small push.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, speechless and crestfallen. His brow creased and he shook his head. “No, it’s not true, Crowley!” he insisted. “Y-you’re lying…” Slate blue eyes searched Crowley’s closed off expression desperately, his hands clasped at his chest.

“No. This has to end. Now. Stay away from me.” His dark glasses were impenetrable. Crowley took several steps back.

“Crowley! It doesn’t have to be this way!”

“Stay. Away.” Crowley growled and turned on his heel. With a snap, he flung open the bookshop door and stormed out.


	6. 27 May 1649 - The Day Crowley Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale drinks himself into oblivion after Crowley has saved him from it.

Aziraphale kicked an empty Chateau du Pont bottle away from him listlessly. There were about three of them around him. He sat on the floor, slumped against the velvet cushion of the lounge, and felt very sorry for himself.

Crowley had his best interests at heart. There was no mistake about that. But why did it have to feel so bad?

He felt guilty. He felt he had used Crowley, manipulated him into something that clearly gnawed at his conscience. Him! An angel!

What a rotten angel he had been.

And now Crowley was gone. God knows where. Was he just across town, at his flat, right now? Or was he on the other side of the world? On another planet? Down in Hell, where Aziraphale surely could not reach him?

Aziraphale buried his face in the crook of his arm and wept bitterly.

He should’ve asked Crowley, checked in with him. He’d ignored the warning signs, the oddities in Crowley’s behavior when they were intimate. What did he know about sex? Not much, obviously. Crowley had all the expertise, and all of the caution, apparently.

So, every time Crowley had touched him, rutted up against him, held his hair as he went down on him--he’d been holding back. If it had just been a month, or just a couple times, maybe Aziraphale could understand. But all this time? It felt like Crowley had lied to him.

Aziraphale couldn’t think straight. He was mad--at himself, at Crowley, at stupid Gabriel, maybe even at God for making such a world where his best friend shunned him to save him from eternal damnation or some rot.

All he wanted was for Crowley to be here, to tell him everything would be alright. That was exactly the problem--Crowley wasn’t here and it wouldn’t be alright.

The wine muddled everything up. His longing for Crowley’s comfort turned to longing for his soft embrace, his confident touch. The way he whispered “angel” to him without an inch between them. Aziraphale’s body responded to the ghost of Crowley in his memory and the angel pressed his thighs together and cursed and beat his fist against the lounge. He could will it away, but this part of him had become just as much a part of him as his short hair or affinity for waistcoats. 

But he had to. It was torture to feel his arousal demanding his attention. It had happened before, getting all turned on from thinking about Crowley, but never when he’d been in such a state. Normally, he would distract himself, or plan their next date to ensure he would get his relief.

Crowley had never once initiated it, Aziraphale realized with another heaving sob. But he always came. And he always knew just how he wanted to be touched. Always kissed him with passion and fire. Was that all a lie? Part of an act? Or was he, a Principality, an angel, responsible for tempting Crowley?

He had been a very bad angel and it had cost him everything. His body continued to ache for Crowley. What did it even matter now? In his drunken haze, he wanted to throw it all away. It felt like all the joy of existence had been stripped away.

Aziraphale loosened his cravat and fumbled at his buttons. With much undignified wriggling, he freed himself of his coat and shirt so he could get to the buttons of his trousers.

Crowley. Crowley. Crowley.

He couldn’t think of anything else. Just last week, the demon had held him and touched him. Aziraphale could still feel the way his lips graced the back of his neck. Sniffling, Aziraphale leaned back against the lounge and his head fell back on the cushion. His fingers felt numb as he touched his bare chest. He wrapped his arms around himself, as if he could simulate the embrace he so badly wanted, and he sobbed.

Crowley. His very best friend.

Once, Crowley had kissed him out on the street. Aziraphale had puffed up and shouted at him, even though it was really too dark out for anyone to see. He had liked it, really. He’d never have the chance to tell him. Sometimes, Crowley would linger, complaining his legs didn’t work, and he’d lie in bed beside him and just run his hands over his body. Aziraphale complained that it tickled, but he would’ve stayed in that bed forever. Never again would he ramble on about his latest food obsession while Crowley indulged him with that patient smirk. No more kissing that serpent mark and feeling Crowley shiver. Now he could only imagine Crowley’s strong hands dragging him close, and touching his face with such sweet reverence.

One of Aziraphale’s hands fell away from gripping himself so tightly and hung limply in his lap. He was still hard, his addled mind a tumultuous mess of desire, now tinged with pain. He had never touched himself--not alone, anyway. What did it even matter now? It was all bullshit, wasn’t it? Or was the danger real?

Aziraphale’s fingers twitched, then moved slowly over the bulge in his trousers. His breath hitched, half gasp, half sob. He bit his lip and allowed himself the pressure of his palm against his cock. Drunk and heartbroken as he was, he’d rather be damned than go on without Crowley.

With a shuddering breath, Aziraphale unbuttoned his trousers and freed his arousal. He tried to touch himself the way Crowley did, tried to recreate the way Crowley adjusted and reacted to his moans to bring him to even greater heights. It didn’t work. Aziraphale hid his face shamefully in the crook of his arm and pumped his cock desperately. He just wanted to feel good, to remember. Weeping, he fell asleep without even finishing.

He was bound to wake up very cross and out of sorts in the morning.

 

Touching oneself for pleasure is not exactly the problem with masturbation. It’s the wasteful spilling of seed that was once considered problematic. Aziraphale, being an angel, did not in fact have any so-called seed to spill. While unusual for an angel to corporate the necessary parts for it, there was actually nothing wrong with angels masturbating. Pleasure is part of the design, after all.

 


	7. 7 February 1793 - The Day Crowley Came Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lonely Aziraphale finds himself locked up in the Bastille. All he wanted was a crepe!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a direct transcript of one of the scenes from episode 3 of Good Omens, with some internal dialog added by me. Obviously, the credit goes to the brilliant Neil Gaiman and the inspiration of Terry Pratchett. I've been wanting to weave in direct bits, hence the trail of crepe crumbs that led us here!

A week turned into a month, a month into a season, the seasons into a year, and Aziraphale saw no sign of Crowley. When he walked by his flat as the days were growing crisp and cool, he saw the door had been bricked up, as if it had never been there in the first place. He would sometimes light the candles around the circle in the back of his bookshop, and use it as a focus to try and find Crowley. Not even a whisper.

Aziraphale was lonely. There was no two ways about it. He retained his indomitable spirit, but it felt like a mask on a hollow shell. He had gone years without seeing Crowley, but that was centuries ago. Back when he had been much more strict about keeping their duties separate, before they made their little arrangement to split the work and keep the balance.

As one year turned into several, Aziraphale closed the shop for a time and went traveling. Back to the homeland in Jerusalem. To the exotic Orient. He even went to America--initially to the colonies, but finding their society too brutish for his taste, he wandered out past the frontier and communed with the nomadic natives.

He wasn’t _looking_ for Crowley, per se. But he couldn’t help himself from asking whether anyone had seen a tall, lean man all in black with dark red hair and tinted spectacles. Once, he thought he might have found Crowley’s trail in India, but it turned out to be a rather nefarious merchant. A different kind of demon.

Crowley didn’t want to be found, and Aziraphale would have to accept that. He never forgot those months they had shared, stealing away into his bedroom and making love. He came to terms with his actions, and with Crowley’s, and felt no ill will. More of a melancholy. And some regret. It was against his better judgement at the start. He should have been a better angel.

Aziraphale’s productivity banishing evil forces and preaching peace increased dramatically. He wanted to be a better angel. Perhaps, if he were a better angel, he and Crowley could go back to the way it was. Just friends. Good friends.

Whenever he was feeling particularly downtrodden, he usually found himself returning to France. It was dangerous--a seemingly endless barrage of coups and revolutions, protests and riots--but that was part of what drew him in. He had a morbid attraction to the violence, now, a sick yearning to breathe in some of that evil. He did his part, of course, where he could and helped the downtrodden, turned a few skirmishes, breathed some life into the dying faith.

Then he would go to Versailles, where the nobility had tried to hide away and ignore the protesting peasantry. There was a lovely cafe there that served the finest crepes. A good, French crepe did wonders to fill the hollowness inside him. On this particular visit, he found a different Versailles. King Louis XVI had been arrested and recently executed, and the new government of the freshly minted Republic of France had been moved to Paris. The cafe, a favorite of King Louis, had been replaced with a very practical cobbler.

Disappointed, Aziraphale turned to head back to Paris, and failed to notice how his Versailles-appropriate attire drew many stares.

He didn’t make it to his crepes. Instead, he found himself stopped on the street and interrogated in rapid-fire French. Apparently, he’d said the wrong thing. Now he was in a dank cell at the bottom of the Bastille in shackles and very concerned by the violent bustle going on just beyond his window.

  
Aziraphale sighed and looked down at his shackled wrists. He tilted his head back with another sharper sigh. Of course it was the crepes that got him into trouble. What an awful day.

Keys rattled from beyond the cell door and Aziraphale turned to look. He opened his mouth, but the guard who entered spoke over him in full French. Why couldn’t he have the gift of Tongues? He managed a polite smile--that, at least, was universal.

“Seton _grand_ m-mistake… Uhh, erreur… Bit out of practice with the French…”

Before Aziraphale could make an even greater fool of himself, the guard leaned forward. “I speak English.”

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief, which was cut off by the sudden plunge of a guillotine just outside the barred window. The sound sliced through him and made his throat grow dry.

“Listen to that. The fall of the guillotine blade. Is it not terrible?” The guard beamed.

“Yes, yes. Cutting off that poor woman’s head. Terrible.” Aziraphale implored for mercy in the guard.

“It is Pierre. An amateur. Always he let go of the rope too soon.” The guard shook his head. He brightened again. “You are lucky,” he said, waving his finger at Aziraphale, “that it is I, Jean-Claude, who will remove your traitorous head from your shoulders.”

“Look, this is all a terrible mistake. I-I don’t think you understand-”

“I have good news for you. You are the 999th aristo to die at the guillotine by my hand. But the first English.” Aziraphale tried to smile at his jovial pronouncement. “Now.”

Aziraphale jumped up from his seat, “Please! No. Dreadful mistake, discorporating me. Oh, it’ll be a complete nightmare.”

Another crash of the guillotine, and Jean-Claude turned to celebrate the beautiful sound.

“Animals,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that.” Crowley appeared out of time itself, the moment crystalized.

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide as he heard a familiar voice he hadn’t heard in over a hundred years. “Crowley.” He hesitated for a moment, then turned to find his old friend sprawled on the stone bench by the cell door. “Oh, good Lord.” Of course Crowley was dressed like the revolutionists. Had they really been moving pieces just on other sides of the battle lines?

“What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you had a bookshop to run.” Crowley hadn’t changed a bit--the same serpent-tongued demon Aziraphale had known for thousands of years. Albeit, with a new hairstyle. A bit prissy for him, Aziraphale thought.

“Well, I was. I got peckish.” Aziraphale shifted from foot to foot, denying that his craving for crepes had anything to do with it being his greatest comfort food, and the last (disappointing) thing he had eaten with Crowley.

“Peckish?”

“Well, if you must know, it was the crepes. Can’t get decent ones anywhere but France. And the brioche.”

“So you just popped across the Channel during a revolution, because you wanted something to nibble. Dressed like that.” Nothing sounded more like Aziraphale, Crowley had to admit.

“I have standards,” he said defensively, bristling at that sly, mocking smirk on Crowley’s lips. Better to bristle than to swoon. “I’d heard they were getting a bit carried away over here, but…”

“Yeah, this is not getting carried away. This is cutting off lots of people’s heads very efficiently with a big head-cutting machine. Why don’t you just perform another miracle and go home?”

“I was reprimanded last month. They said I’d performed too many frivolous miracles. Got a strongly worded note from Gabriel.” Something about how cleaning stains out of one’s favorite coat was hardly call for a miracle. And then there was that bit with the little urchin girl whose flowers had gone all wilted, so he’d spruced them up--well, that was just nice! Perhaps making spots available for a table of one at restaurants more than once a week was a _bit_ overboard...

“Well, you’re lucky I was in the area.”

“I suppose I am.” Aziraphale peered at Crowley, trying to calm his beating heart. “Why are you here?” Now? After over a century?

“My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance.”

“So all this is your demonic work?” Aziraphale stood up, outraged. That was why? It had nothing even remotely to do with him? Even for Crowley, this was in poor taste.

“No! The humans thought it up themselves. Nothing to do with me.”

Aziraphale let out a small sigh of relief. Crowley extended his arm and snapped. The chains fell from Aziraphale’s wrists.

“Well, I suppose I should say thank you…” Aziraphale said quietly, “for the, uh, rescue.”

Crowley lunged forward. “Don’t say that. If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes.” He didn’t deserve a thank you from Aziraphale. Not after how he’d left things.

“Well, anyway, I’m very grateful. What about if I buy you lunch?”

“Looking like that?” Crowley skirted around saying an outright ‘no.’

Aziraphale hesitated and sighed. So much for no more minor miracles. With a flourish of his hand, he switched his clothes with the nearby guard. Serves him right for trying to kill him just for dressing nicely. “Barely counts as a miracle, really,” he defended himself as he fell in step with Crowley.

More guards arrived to bring the prisoner to the guillotine block. Jean-Claude found himself suddenly in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong attire.

“Dressed like that, he’s asking for trouble,” Crowley muttered as they watched him struggle and try to explain that _he_ was the executioner and not the one to be executed. The demon turned to Aziraphale. Crowley’s mind was whirring behind his shaded eyes. He’d come this far, came outright to save the angel. He had missed Aziraphale. Terribly. Seeing him now, his poised, sunny self, unchanged from their years apart made him ache. This was why he’d stayed away for so long. He knew as soon as he was back in Aziraphale’s sphere, his stubborn walls would crack. 

Why not have lunch? Couldn’t hurt. Hurt less than vanishing again for another hundred years. “What’s for lunch?” 

“What would you say to some crepes?”


	8. 143 Years, 8 Months, 12 Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finally gets his crepes, but what he really wants is his friend back.

“How’re the crepes?” Crowley was the one to finally break the silence. The silence had nothing to do with Aziraphale eating and everything to do with the thick slab of tension between them. He really should have refused the offer for lunch, but…

It had been over a hundred years. Well, less than that since he’d seen Aziraphale, but he never let himself be seen. He’d been keeping tabs on the angel--a sort of… guardian demon watching over him. Aziraphale’s belief in humans’ honest intentions always got him into trouble. It was a wonder he hadn’t gotten discorporated hundreds of times over the years.

Aziraphale smiled with pure joy. “Marvelous. Nearly worth getting my head cut off,” he joked. “Are you sure you won’t have any?” He gestured to his plate.

“No. Thanks.”

And back to that awful silence. Aziraphale was afraid to speak, afraid he would say precisely the wrong thing and send Crowley hurrying off. But he had to say  _ something. _ “It really is so good to see you,” he blurted, instinctively reaching out to touch Crowley’s hand. The demon shifted away and Aziraphale flinched and withdrew his hand, busying himself with his napkin.

“Don’t mention it.” Crowley said, his head turned away. His fingers rested on his lips, pensive. “I mean really--don’t mention it.”

Aziraphale was at a loss. Even with Crowley seated right in front of him, he felt so distant. He didn’t know where to look. He wanted to look at Crowley, to study the face he had only seen in dreams, in memories, but Crowley was so very far away, out of reach. His eyes kept moving, lingering on Crowley, then staring at his teacup as he ran his finger along the golden rim. “Where’ve you been all this time?” he asked gently.

“Here and there. Took a nice vacation in Costa Rica for a few years. Fine place, even with España roving around, building all those damn churches.”

“It’s been… a century, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale tried to act surprised that it had been so long. Not that he’d been counting the 143 years, 8 months, and 12 days since he had last seen his best friend. Former best friend.

“143 years, 8 months, and 12 days,” Crowley muttered.

Best friend. Aziraphale almost cried. His smile split the heavens and he averted his misty gaze. “O-oh, has it been that long?” he lied.

Crowley looked over at the angel, his lips wrought in a sad smile. “Don’t pretend, angel…” he said, his voice soft.

“I looked for you.” Aziraphale sniffed.

“I know.” Crowley sighed.

“Why now? After all this time?” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley with unshed tears in his eyes.

Crowley felt his heart break a little more. He needed to get out of here. “Got yourself in a right mess.” That was it. He was just keeping Aziraphale out of trouble. Crowley looked at his hand on the table cloth and frowned. He’d thought Aziraphale would hate him. For leaving, and for staying gone for so long. But here his angel was, trying to make things normal, and brimming with tears at his return. “I missed you. What can I say?” he huffed out with a laugh, hiding behind his tinted glasses and a forced smile.

Aziraphale choked on a laugh and tears fell from his eyes. He quickly wiped them away with his napkin and composed himself. “I missed you, too, Crowley.” He wrung the napkin in his hands under the table. “Y-your hair looks… ridiculous,” he laughed, forcing everything to be normal.

Crowley looked taken aback. He fluffed his tall, curled pomp with a frown. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I do, no mistake there. But hardly the look I expected on you.”

”What about that hat? Talk about ridiculous.” Crowley passed a look of judgement over Aziraphale.

“It’s not  _ my  _ hat,” Aziraphale shot back. He adjusted the hat self-consciously. “I was dressed quite nicely when you first arrived.”

“Yes, you would have made a very pretty corpse,” Crowley grinned. It felt too easy to fall back into their banter. His grin faded.

Aziraphale smiled and looked away. It still hurt a little, knowing that Crowley refused to want him the way he had back then. But he had come to accept it.

Crowley felt like maybe he had said the wrong thing. They had long had this kind of familiar banter that bordered on flirting, but the tight set of Aziraphale’s smile made him think twice. “I should get going.” He unsprawled himself from the chair and stood up, straightening his coat.

Aziraphale looked crestfallen and stood so quickly, his napkin fell to the floor. “So soon?”

Crowley gave a little shrug.

Aziraphale rushed to him and hugged him tightly. “Promise me you won’t disappear again.” He squeezed Crowley, ignoring the warning bells going off in his head that told him this would definitely make Crowley flee. “Please.”

Crowley ached as he felt Aziraphale press up against him and hold him so tightly. He frowned as he glanced around, but miraculously, no one was looking at them. He sighed and carefully put his arms around Aziraphale, surrendering his chin to the angel’s shoulder. Heaven, it felt so good.

“Will you come back to England?” Aziraphale asked him, muffled against his shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s wise…”

“It’s different now.” Aziraphale clutched Crowley’s coat, then thought better of it and started to release him. “I want my friend back,” he whispered, looking up at Crowley.

How could Crowley deny that look in Aziraphale’s eyes? The angel spoke the words that he could not. His hand moved on its own accord and touched Aziraphale’s face. The angel blushed and looked away, trying to put more distance between them. Crowley retracted his hand quickly and looked at the floor to his right.

“Maybe. Yeah. Maybe.” His voice came out scratchy and tight.

“T-there’s a new restaurant, and you’ve just got to try it.” Aziraphale blustered onward, forcing Crowley’s expression and the touch of his hand out of his mind.

“Won’t it hurt?” Crowley muttered in a low voice.

“Not any more than not seeing you for 143 years, 8 months, and 12 days,” Aziraphale replied promptly, wringing his hands. “I’ll see you. In London.” His eyes were steel as they pinned Crowley in place.

Crowley sighed into a smile. “I’ll see you. In London.”

“St. James Park?”

“Thursday.”

Aziraphale beamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's where we'll leave our boys! Dry your eyes, kittens, the next part is in the works...
> 
> If you want to help support me, you can check out my original stories on Medium and leave me claps! (It's free!) https://medium.com/@vol.ctrl
> 
> Follow me on Twitter to get updates on when new chapters drop: @vol_ctrl


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